Mooning

Friday, August 31st, 2012

Dear Bloggary:

It’s a special night, tonight. Did you see the blue moon! (No,Dear Bloggary, I didn’t drop my drawers in the cooler at work.) Although, some people are calling it the harvest moon, I think blue moon sounds more romantic. Now I feel like singing. “Blue Moooooom, You saw me standing alone…” If it were still visible, I would go out and bay at it. (Redundant? No, Dear Bloggary, that was singing, not baying.)

I thought about performing some ritual in honour of the blue moon tonight, like dancing naked on the lawn, but we settled on having a campfire in the backyard. (That’s right, Dear Bloggary, I didn’t want to traumatize the neighbours, my dancing sucks.) I believe one (or more) of the neighbours was also celebrating the blue moon, as the sweet smell of Mary Jane began wafting through the air. (No, Dear Bloggary, that’s not a women’s perfume.) Combine that with a few drops of rain, and I decided the celebration was over…for now. I’ll dance naked later.

Oh, by the way, I talked with two people today who said they were acquainted with you, Dear Bloggary. (Yes, you can thank J and B for visiting.)

That’s all for tonight. Good night, Dear Bloggary.

Yours,

Shannon

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A Class Act

Thursday, August 30th, 2012

Dear Bloggary:

Do I smell like whiskey? Yeah, I had a little accident at work today. (No, Dear Bloggary, I didn’t drown my troubles with a couple of belts.) I knocked a pint of whiskey on the floor. As I watched it fall, I thought, “At least it’s plastic, so it won’t break.” I was so naïve. Did you know that plastic caps explode when dropped? Well, consider yourself schooled. The cap flew across the room and hit the wall, while the amber liquid made a puddle on the floor. (No, Dear Bloggary, I didn’t dumped Pepsi on it…the floor likes its whiskey straight.)

So I met a nice couple from New Jersey tonight. They got a kick out of our loonies and toonies. I thought I was being charming as I explained the names of our Canadian money…until I tripped on my shoe lace and did a funky sort of chicken dance. (Klutz, thy name is Shannon. Funny, Dear Bloggary.) At least I left them with a silly story about this clumsy Canadian who smelled like whiskey. Yeah, I’m a class act. I wonder if they blogged about me.  Hmmm.

That’s it for tonight, Dear Bloggary.  This whiskey girl needs her beauty sleep.

Yours,

Shannon